Shelby
“Meet me at the Pitt at one o’clock. I’ve traded up.”
In Veronica-speak, the message she left on my cell phone could mean a variety of things. Traded up for a newer, faster car. Or traded up on that vacation she’s been pestering Franco about; Geneva, Paris, and a whirlwind tour of an underappreciated yet superexpensive Luxembourg. But judging by the excitement in her tone, I fear her trading up really means traded in. That Franco and his wallet are reassigned to the used-bank-account lot in exchange for someone wealthier.
Whatever news she’s so eager to share, I’m thankful for, because meeting her for lunch puts me back in the game.
You can grieve when you’re dead.
We’ll touch base over lunch. And if luck will have it, they’ll be a new car outside and Franco will be joining us. We’ll catch up like old friends, more talk about Europe, confirmation of the exact date on which Novák’s returning to Shelby.
If he’s not already here, given it is the first week of the month. All the more reason to hurry the heck up. I quicken my pace as I approach the Pitt.
I’m sweaty from my run, the white shirt with long black sleeves and a Rolling Stones Sticky Fingers album cover decaled on the front plastered to my skin. Paired with loose khaki pants, a worn pair of sneakers, and a camouflage-colored backpack, I won’t be signing any autographs. But let’s face it, this local eating hole isn’t exactly Nobu or Le Cirque.
The Pitt is exactly as you’d expect from its name. Popular in the fifties, it’s now more of a dive than diner. Its silver rectangular façade is sorely in need of a washing. The neon sign hanging overhead blinked its last blink the day truckers and local riffraff replaced the churchgoing crowd. The five cement steps leading inside are chipped and uneven. An accident waiting to happen.
Yet it’s the only gig in town, which is why it’s still in business. I’d avoid the place like the plague.
I stop to decling my shirt, while wondering about Francis’s progress. My eyes and ears of the past three days—our deal, right? What else has Franco told him? And how much more information does Hayden require, after I gave him the names of cities where Novák is likely conducting business?
I’m about to walk across the parking lot when I happen to look at the steps leading up and into the Pitt and notice the man who has just exited. A case of thinking about a person, and him suddenly appearing.
Francis.
Yet instead of calling out to him and asking him for an update, I tuck back behind a parked car, watching him as he pulls up the collar of his jacket and stalks off in the opposite direction.
Is Franco inside?
Except there’s no limo waiting outside and the driver just walked off.
No way in high hell does Francis even remotely qualify for Veronica’s trade-up. So what is he doing here?
I glance at my watch. Fifteen minutes early. Despite my curiosity along with, for whatever reason, the anxious knot that’s formed in the pit of my stomach, I head inside. But intuition goes a long way. Whatever intuition doesn’t cover, experience does. No one leaves Hayden’s Hell Camp unprepared. Something is off.
Something isn’t right.
I slide the small backpack off my shoulder and reach inside. My fingers brush over the leather case of the knife Declan gave me and then a plastic bottle of laxatives before finding the handle of my Ruger. Casually, I turn my back toward the empty checkout counter and secure my gun into the back of my jeans.
I’m prepared for the worst.
Or so I believe, until I spot Veronica and the man seated across from her in the booth at the end of the aisle. Not Franco. Not some random billionaire.
Novák.
Shit. Oh shit.
“Kylie. Over here,” she says, waving me over.
But I’ve got my own angrier waves to deal with along with an undertow of rage spinning me around and trying to drag me under.
Now’s your chance. Sit down. Smile at him. Then take your gun out and shoot him between the eyes. Kill him like he did your dad.
God, I should really call Hayden. Am I expected to gather information directly from the Prick himself?
If that’s the case, what a shame. Because dead men can’t talk. Isn’t that right, Hayden?
I calmly walk toward the booth.
“Kylie, you came,” Veronica exclaims, then shoves over in the booth, making room for me to sit. “I’d like to introduce you to my boyfriend.”
I. Can’t. Move. It’s like cement fills my sneakers, rooting me in place and refusing to release me. Preventing me from sliding into the booth and taking my place across from a man I loathe.
Run, common sense tries to spur me on.
But that’s the old Kylie. The girl who resorted to spying on the Pricks, taking careful notes of their actions, waiting for the perfect moment, their one fuckup, before contacting Homeland Security with solid, credible, detailed information they could act on. No excuses. No pats on the arm and snide remarks about getting in over my head or me watching too many vigilante Westerns.
That was the old Kylie.
The new Kylie is sliding into the booth.
Shaking the Prick’s hand, pretending not to know who he is and what he’s done, even when he takes her hand and squeezes it hard, testing her.
Sliding her Ruger out of her pants, placing her finger on the trigger, and setting the gun on her thigh, pointed straight at him.
The new Kylie is going to kill this motherfucking Prick.
Keep your temper in check. Don’t do anything careless. Think.
“Are you visiting Shelby?” I ask, giving him my best faux smile.
“He just returned from Paris—”
“Shut your trap,” he snaps at Veronica. “Run your mouth and you’re done.”
And after you run your mouth, you’re done.
“Oh. I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t think.”
He ignores her to take a sip of coffee, then pulls a face. “Liquid shit.”
“Not like what you find in Paris, right?” I comment.
This earns me a glare.
I give him an innocent grin as I finger the trigger.
“I wish we left town to have lunch. Dayton has a fabulous new-wave restaurant. A bit pricey but I hear the food is excellent.”
“How long is he in town for?” I casually ask Veronica.
He practically drops his coffee cup on the table. It causes the table to vibrate and the other two cups of coffee to rattle. Three cups of coffee . . .
“Long enough.”
“He’s an entremanure.”
“Entrepreneur,” he corrects her. Although I can’t figure out what his native language is—if his accent is Eastern European or Russian, his English is perfect.
“Really? How great is it to have one visit Shelby? Are you an investor or inventor?” I don’t really expect him to come out and confirm his connection with Franco. Still, the quicker he talks, the quicker we’ll get down to real business.
“I invest in inventions.”
My eyebrows shoot up, high enough to touch the once-white ceiling. Inventions. Drugs. Next he’ll be sharing stories about his Barbie-doll collection.
Inventions like . . . I let my curiosity show on my face.
He shakes his head, refusing to elaborate on my unspoken question.
“Ever hear of the Belousov-Zhabotinsky reaction, named after the Russian scientist who first observed it? It happens when ferroin interacts with bromine and oxygen to create a series of spheres. The interesting part is that once the reaction is complete, there’s a reverse reaction that brings the atoms back into their original state.” The perfect example of the ying-yang that is my life.
Veronica looks at me like I’ve been sipping too much happy sauce.
Novák simply stares.
I shrug my shoulders. “With you being Russian and all, I assumed you might have learned this in school . . .” Yeah, right.
“I’m not Russian.”
“Your accent must be—”
His phone rings, interrupting me. “Please excuse me.” He exits the booth, then the Pitt. For a few minutes, Veronica and I watch through the window as he paces back and forth in the parking lot. His calm demeanor turns more agitated with whatever is being discussed.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Veronica, slipping my gun back inside the waistline of my jeans, certain the backpack is preventing her from catching my actions. “I have to tinkle.”
My pulse pounds and with each step I feel as agitated as my target. Damn Hayden and his rules. I should have shot that Prick while I had the chance.
I lock the bathroom door behind me, remove my phone from my backpack, and call in.
Hayden picks up after two rings. “Report.”
I suck in a breath. “There’s no time to explain. I’m with Novák,” I practically choke on his name. “He’s outside and within reach.”
“You’re with Novák.”
Damn Hayden and his suspicious nature.
“Yes. Permission to terminate the Prick.”
Silence.
“I learned a few interesting things. He’s not Russian, but his accent is Eastern European. And along with his drug connections, he’s investing in some kind of invention.”
“Did he say who he’s working for?”
“Don’t you think that’s be the first thing I’d tell you?” I snap. Frustrated and in a hurry. “Permission to terminate.”
“Undecided.”
I squeeze the phone between my fingers. “Undecided? Is that word even in your vocabulary? He’s right outside and I’m ready to do it.”
“You’re allowing your anger to cloud your judgment.”
Fuck you, Hayden.
“Answer this question and I’ll consider giving you what you want.”
“Whatever. Just hurry—”
“I have reports that Novák’s men have been outside the gates of Freedom’s Bluff. Small town, it was bound to happen sooner or later . . .”
I almost drop the phone.
“Yet my man on the outside informs me word is getting out on TORC.”
No. Don’t ask me. It isn’t me.
“You know anything about this?”
“No. Goddamn it. No. I would never sell you out. Discuss TORC with anyone.” Put Jaxson at risk along with everyone else.
“I’m calling you in. Report back to the Ranch.” I blink, staring at the phone with a mixture of disbelief . . . and fury. Does he or doesn’t he believe me?
“But . . . Novák . . .”
“I’ll put someone else on him.”
I grind my teeth together.
“Kylie.”
“Hayden.” You bastard.
“Don’t.” The phone disconnects and I’m left with one hell of a decision. Keep to my contract and obey his orders. Return to the Ranch. My heart begins to race. And Jaxson—if he’s there.
Or follow through on the promise made at my mother’s graveside, then return to the Ranch and face the consequences of disobeying Hayden.
I stand a bit straighter, remove my gun, and conceal it beneath the sleeve of my T-shirt, and with my free hand, unlock the bathroom door.
My father’s last breath.
Mama’s passing.
My sister’s pain.
All the time spent away from them, all those Tuesdays hiding in the woods and watching the compound. Hell Camp. Hayden. My forced separation from the man I love.
Jaxson. I’m sorry for what I’m about to do. Disobeying an order, and possibly bringing a hailstorm of trouble down on you.
I wish I could call him. Hear his voice. Confide in him. Tell him I love you one more time.
But time’s ticking by.
Revenge is mine, and mine alone to take.
Except when I arrive at the booth, Veronica is alone. And Novák is nowhere in sight.
“He’s gone.”
“Gone?” No. NO. “Are you positive?”
I’m shaking, literally shaking from head to toe.
She holds up her cell phone to show me a text. Be home later for my call. “He’s possessive, always wants to know where I’m at and who I’m with. Doesn’t like to mix business with pleasure, either. Not like Franco did—always with men hovering around. It’s nice not having an audience. Still, Novák’s a little overwhelming. What I’d really like is a girls’ night out. Soon, okay?”
“Sure.” We’ll sip cosmopolitans at the Prick’s goddamn burial.
“At least he text me good-bye. A gentleman, right? You know, it seems silly to leave like Francis did without saying something.”
I’m so pissed off, I’m barely paying attention to her. “Francis.”
“My text to you said one o’clock, just like he said. But he left just beforehand. What man does that?”
“Does what?” I demand, refocusing. “What exactly did Francis do?”
“Invite a woman to lunch then leave before she arrives.”